A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Those two beasts we left with Mom. She put them inside the house. Her hearing isn’t until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and she may not be processed and out until noon. They can’t stay inside the whole time.” He exhaled. “I’d go up there and let them out myself, but I’m on duty until midnight and things are already picking up. I need to get out of here and back on patrol.”

She looked at her linguine, the tomatoes and garlic cloves lined up on her cutting board, the wineglass waiting to be filled. “You know I’m glad to help, but…getting into your mom’s house…isn’t this something a family member ought to do? Your sister? Your wife?”

“Janice took the kids to her in-laws for the weekend, and my brother-in-law is alone with forty cows. He wouldn’t leave them unattended if God himself got on the phone and asked him over. And I can’t ask Linda.” The tone of his voice did not invite further questions.

“What about…” Her mind cast around for reasons why this was a bad idea. “But they can’t run around here in my yard. They’re big dogs; they need their exercise.”

“Well, then, take them to the park and let them run off-leash.”

“You can do that in the park?”

“Hell, yeah. The park’s very animal-friendly. There used to be two big water troughs there for dogs and horses, until they were torn out in the eighties.”

The only other objections she could think of were even more inane than the last one.

“Clare,” he said. His voice went even lower. “Please.”

She closed her eyes. “Of course. I’ll do it. I’m on my way right now.”

“Can you find her place again?”

“The U.S. Army trusted me to fly very expensive helicopters over large stretches of unmarked territory without getting lost. I think I can find Old Scanadaiga Road.”

“Old Sacandaga Road.”

“That, too. Is her house locked? How do I get in?”

“Yes, her house is locked.” She could hear him restraining himself from commenting on her own habits. “The spare key is under the geranium pot farthest to the left on the front steps. Not the kitchen door, where you go in, but the front.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep the dogs as long as necessary. Just tell your mom to give me a call when she’s sprung”—she grinned at the noise he made—“and we’ll take it from there.”

“Thanks, Clare. I owe you one.”

“Your debt is forgiven. Now go and do likewise.”

He laughed. “Yes, Father Flanagan.”

She hung up, thinking she liked making Russ laugh. It almost made up for the leaden way her body responded to the idea of getting dressed and going back out. Parishioners had invited her to three cookouts, two fireworks-watching ensembles, and on a trip to the Saratoga Performing Arts Center for the concert tonight. She had declined them all, knowing that after celebrating two Eucharists and running the 10K race, the only thing she would feel up to doing was collapsing in front of the television. She pulled the linguine off the burner. “ ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’ ” she said, heading back upstairs to change.

Old Route 100 between Millers Kill and Margy Van Alstyne’s house was far busier than it had been on Thursday. Clare passed minivans crowded with sticky children, tiny cars with kayaks teetering on top, and bass-thumping stereos on wheels, filled with wind-whipped hair of indeterminate origin. Along the heavily wooded stretch she had to slow to a stop to accommodate a truck that seemed, at first glance, to be picking up National Guardsmen on maneuvers. It wasn’t until she got a closer look at the men straggling out of the forest that she saw the fluorescent orange and green splatters on their jackets and realized they were paintball players. Near the intersection of Route 100 and the Old Sacandaga Road, she saw no fewer than three buses headed back from rafting trips on the Hudson. She marveled that people would pay good money to get stuck, not to mention soaking wet, on a rubber raft on a day that had promised sixty-degree weather and rain.

The dogs, when she had found the key and unlocked the kitchen door, were as ecstatic to see her as they had been the last time. “Don’t get used to this,” she warned them. “I won’t always be here to rescue you from being left alone. No, Bob! Down!” She let them have the run of the backyard while she slung the already seriously depleted bag of kibble into her tiny trunk. She made a metal note to stop at the IGA and buy another fifty pounds before returning the dogs to Margy. God knew when Paul Foubert would return from Albany.